


In the Sirocco

by sevenfists



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-06
Updated: 2008-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-19 06:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10634613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfists/pseuds/sevenfists
Summary: A story about hypnosis, God, marijuana, and true love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to besquared and mcee for beta work.

For the most part, Brendon didn't have any trouble sleeping, but a few months into the tour he caught Pete's insomnia or something, and suddenly he was averaging four hours a night. It sucked, but there wasn't anything Brendon could do about it. He tried warm milk and crackers and hot baths and even fucking _aromatherapy_ (Shane's idea, that asshole), and none of it worked. He resigned himself to a lifetime of sneaking energy drinks when Ryan wasn't looking.

He spent a lot of time curled up in the back lounge late at night, watching infomercials and listening to Jon snore in the bunks. He liked that show on Discovery Channel, with the guys who were always blowing stuff up like in the movies. But mostly he watched infomercials about how to slim your waistline. Brendon hoped his waistline was slim enough, because he really didn't want to make three easy payments of $39.99 for the Gazelle Trimmer or whatever it was called.

One night he watched a special about hypnosis. Brendon didn't really believe any of that shit about animal magnetism and communing with the spirit world, but it was kind of neat to watch people crawl around and bark like dogs. He wondered if he could get Jon to do that. Jon would be _so pissed_ , it'd be hilarious.

They were in a toy store in Ohio a couple of days later—not Brendon's fault for once; Jon wanted to buy something for William's kid—and Brendon spotted an honest-to-God hypnotism kit for sale. The only option was to buy it. Brendon was no fool; he'd learned to pay attention to things like weird coincidences.

He opened it up once they were back on the bus: how-to booklet, oddly shaped pendant, bag of something called "Mesmerism Powder."

"It's probably coke," Jon said. "Or, like, the shit they put in Pixie Stix."

"Yeah, dude, I bet they totally put actual cocaine in a $10 game for kids," Brendon said. "That makes so much sense."

Jon just grinned. "Hey, you never know. The drug lords could be trying to get kids hooked early."

"I'm sure that's it," Brendon said.

Ryan came stumbling out the bunks, hiking up his sleep pants and raking on hand through his hair. Spencer was right on his heels. Those two took naps together all the time, it was really weird. Brendon had long since given up trying to understand their freaky BFF relationship, but seriously, shouldn't Ryan's girlfriend be upset that he was routinely sharing a bed with another dude? Brendon had mentioned it once and Keltie had just laughed and said, "Sweetie, I really don't think I have anything to worry about." Whatever that meant.

"What's going on," Ryan said.

"Brendon bought a hypnosis kit," Jon said.

Ryan made a face. "Don't try to hypnotize me," he said.

"I would never," Brendon said, pressing an affronted hand to his chest. "Who wants to know the secrets of your inner mind, Ross?"

"Yeah, shut up," Ryan said, and kicked at Brendon as he shuffled toward the mini-fridge. "Hypnotize Spencer."

"My inner mind doesn't have any secrets," Spencer said.

Brendon stretched out along the couch and made a grab for Spencer's kneecap. "Spence, come on, I bet you've got all _kinds_ of secrets, I bet you've got way more secrets than Jon—"

"That's probably true," Jon said. He'd pulled out his papers and was calmly rolling a joint. Brendon was all for marijuana consumption, but wow, you'd think there would be a line somewhere.

"Absolutely no secrets," Spencer said. He stood there and let Brendon fondle his kneecap. Patella, Brendon thought, and then tried to remember the name of the tendon right beside it. He couldn't come up with anything. Maybe it was a ligament, actually.

"Huh," Brendon said. "No secrets? Really? Shit, you guys are _lame_. Okay, you know what, somebody should try to hypnotize me. It's not like it's actually going to work, come on. It'll be fun."

Jon flicked his lighter on. "I'll do it," he said. "Sit back and prepare to be amazed."

"Awesome," Brendon said, beaming. He let go of Spencer's pants and settled cross-legged on the couch. "Did you read the booklet thing? You have to make sure you do it right. This is our initial experiment, okay, we need to use the scientific method and shit."

"It'll advance our knowledge of the afterlife," Spencer said. He sat down next to Brendon, and Brendon scooted closer, not even trying to be surreptitious about it. Whatever, he liked cuddling, it wasn't a secret.

"Okay," Jon said, flipping through the booklet. "Gimme that pendant thing, I've gotta give you something to focus your, uh, inner eye on. Or something."

"My inner eye," Brendon said, handing over the pendant.

"Yeah," Jon said. "Okay, focus on the pendant and try to keep your mind clear. Like, uh, think really hard about middle C." Ryan sat down on the floor with Jon, and Jon passed him the joint, not looking away from the booklet.

"You're getting very sleepy," Spencer said.

"Hey, shut it," Brendon said. He went for a major 7th chord, letting the sound wash everything else out of his skull. It was kind of calming: the lounge was warm from afternoon sunlight, and it smelled like weed and Old Spice, and Spencer's hand was on Brendon's shoulder. Brendon watched the pendant Jon was swinging and felt himself get, like, weirdly disconnected from reality, like, he was still sitting there on the couch, but it was kind of fuzzy and soft and he wasn't really paying attention to anything except the pendant.

"I think he's under," he heard Jon saying, but the words didn't mean anything. "Brendon? Brendon? Nod if you can hear me."

Brendon felt his chin moving up and down a few times.

Ryan said something, and Spencer answered, and then Jon said, "Brendon, stick one finger in your ear and touch your nose with your tongue."

It sounded like a great idea, so Brendon went ahead and did it. Ryan laughed, and Spencer said, "No, come on, that's mean," and pulled Brendon's finger out of his ear.

"Okay, pretend you're a bird," Jon said. "It's a beautiful day. The sky's blue, you can fly."

Brendon knew it wasn't true, but all the same, he could kind of feel what his arms would be like if they were really wings—lighter, and the feathers not as soft as they looked. He spread his arms, testing the idea. His body felt lighter. Birds had hollow bones, and Brendon could imagine what that was like: like you weren't tethered to the earth.

"This is _hilarious_ ," Ryan said, and something else that Brendon couldn't quite hear, and somebody started giggling. It sounded like Jon's pot giggle, which probably meant that it was Jon. Brendon didn't really care; he was too busy being a bird.

"Come on, guys, stop it," Spencer said, and he touched Brendon's elbow and said, "Hey, Brendon, come on, can you hear me? It's time to wake up now. Listen to my voice."

"Listen to my voice, Brendon," Ryan said, pitching his voice high, and Jon giggled again.

"Shut up," Spencer said. "Brendon. It's time to wake up."

Brendon realized he was crouched on the sofa with his arms stretched out, which was kind of a silly thing to be doing, so he lowered his arms and sat down again. "You guys are jerks," he said.

Jon was laughing so hard his face had turned red. "Oh shit, dude, you should've _seen_ yourself, it was so—oh man."

"Yeah, hilarious, I get it," Brendon said. "Whatever, now I've experienced what it's like to be a bird, which is more than you assholes can say."

"Hey, I stuck up for you," Spencer said.

"That's because you're my favorite," Brendon said, and approvingly stroked Spencer's arm. He liked how Spencer wasn't high all the time like Jon and Ryan were, and how he consequently still had, you know, two brain cells to rub together.

"Who's next," Ryan said.

"I think you just volunteered yourself," Jon said, and Ryan flapped his hands around and bitched a lot, but one of the fundamental rules of the universe was that Ryan would do pretty much anything Jon wanted him to, so of course he ended up giving in.

Ryan, hypnotized, wasn't very exciting. He sat there and blinked at the pendant for a while, and then Jon asked him about his earliest memory, and Ryan said, "I'm sitting on the front steps. Spencer's there. We're eating popsicles. Mine's purple and it drips all over my shirt, and then my dad comes out and scolds me for making a mess."

"That's a shitty first memory," Brendon said.

"Hey, don't mock a man's emotional life," Jon said, taking another hit. He was getting that glassy-eyed look that meant he and Ryan would lie around for the rest of the afternoon and talk about how weird it was that you couldn't see stars during the daytime.

"Okay," Spencer said, "Ryan. Show us how you feel when you're with Keltie."

Ryan got to his feet and then grinned hugely and jumped up in the air, flung his arms out and hopped around in a circle. Brendon had never seen him display that much energy. Like, _ever_. Ryan started doing some weird dance that looked kind of like the Cotton-Eyed Joe, only with more ass-shaking.

"Wow," Jon said. "I guess he really likes her, huh?"

"That's what it looks like," Spencer said. "Okay, Ryan, man, sit down, you're exhausting me."

"Let's wake him up," Brendon said. "He'll get mad if we keep him under too long."

"That was awesome," Ryan said, once he snapped out of it. "It was like. Yeah."

"Profound," Spencer said, and Ryan flipped him off.

"Okay, now it's Spencer's turn," Jon said.

Spencer frowned. "I dunno, I'm not—I don't think I want to."

"Too bad, everyone else is doing it," Jon said. "Peer pressure. Enjoy the ride, Spencer Smith."

"It really is kind of cool," Brendon said. He leaned his head against Spencer's shoulder, and Spencer slung an arm around him, holding him there.

It took Spencer a few minutes to go under, but Brendon could tell when it happened because Spencer's whole body relaxed. "He's gone," Brendon said.

"All right, awesome," Jon said. "What should we ask him?"

"Tell him to pretend he's a bunny rabbit," Brendon said. "I want him to do that thing with his nose."

"Okay, Spence, you're a fluffy little bunny rabbit," Jon said, and they all watched as Spencer lifted his hands and sniffed and wiggled his nose, and Brendon laughed until tears were rolling down his face.

"Oh shit," Ryan said, grinning, "oh my God, Spence, stop it, you look fucking ridiculous."

"What else should we do with him?" Jon asked.

"Let's find out his secrets," Ryan said.

"He said he doesn't have any," Brendon said.

Ryan blew out a cloud of smoke. "Yeah, that's because he's a huge liar. Spencer. Who do you have a crush on?"

"Brendon," Spencer said, and beamed.

Jon dropped his lighter on the floor and it clattered there, spinning out beneath the sofa.

"Oh," Brendon said, his stomach dropping out like he was on a roller coaster and the car was plummeting down the first hill. "Oh. Um. Shit, Spencer, wake up now, I think you should—"

Spencer shoved Brendon away from him and stood up, glaring at Ryan. "Fuck you," he said flatly, and went into the bunks and slammed the door behind him.

"Oh," Brendon said again.

***

Their first year on the road, Brendon wasn't—it was possible he didn't take things too well. Sometimes he liked to do imaginary interviews with himself, and the one about their first year went like this:

"So, Brendon, did you find it easy to adjust to the rock star lifestyle?"

"Well, Jack," (the imaginary interviewers were always named Jack) "it was harder than I thought it would be. There was a lot of fucking around, a lot of booze, a lot of existential angst. You know, the usual."

"Was there any particular reason for that?"

"Hey, I was just a kid, you know, I was eighteen and on my own for the first time—well, not really for the first time, but the actual first time I was on my own, I was still in school and working myself into the ground and practicing with the band every spare moment I had, so I didn't have much time to get into trouble, you know? Suddenly we were touring and getting famous and I suppose you could say I lost myself."

The interview usually stopped there because it wasn't something Brendon really liked to think about. He'd been angry all the time, angry with Ryan for making him doubt himself and tempting him away from his parents and ruining his faith in God. It was easier to have someone else to blame. It wasn't Ryan's fault—Brendon could acknowledge that now; of course it wasn't Ryan's fault, he'd just been a convenient scapegoat, he was there and Brendon could say to himself, "Look, this is why I'm leaving the Church, it's _him_ , it's not something about me."

That first year, in between drinking whenever he could and hooking up with whoever would go on their knees for him in a venue bathroom, Brendon had made out with Spencer a few times. It wasn't a big deal—hadn't been at the time, still wasn't; just the sort of thing that happened sometimes, high on adrenaline after a show, and someone else's body warm against yours in the back seat of a van. Spencer had said it himself: "It doesn't mean anything," he'd said, turning away from Brendon in the dressing room in Tempe—Brendon still remembered it—the soft curve of Spencer's cheek as he looked away.

So whatever, they didn't talk about it. Brendon didn't even think about it much anymore, and he _knew_ Spencer didn't think about it, except maybe Spencer _did_. Maybe there were things Brendon didn't know. He hadn't expected it, Spencer sitting there and calmly opening his mouth and saying, "Brendon."

It seemed like the sort of thing they shouldn't just sweep under the rug, but Spencer hid in his bunk for the rest of the afternoon, and if there was one thing that touring had taught Brendon, it was that a man's bunk was sacrosanct. Plus, Spencer had a nasty biting habit.

"Why'd you _ask_ him that," Brendon said to Ryan, who was watching The O.C. with Jon and acting like nothing had happened.

Ryan slouched down further on the sofa. "It seemed like a good idea at the time," he muttered.

On the TV screen, Summer bounced around in her bikini and was mean to Seth.

"He'll get over it," Jon said. "Just bring him one of those blackberry smoothies and he'll forget all about it."

Brendon frowned. Sometimes Jon could be kind of a jerk. "I'm not sure this is smoothie material," he said.

"Whatever, it's not like he _meant_ it," Jon said. "Hypnosis isn't real. His subconscious was just throwing stuff out there."

Brendon looked at Ryan for support, but Ryan wouldn't meet his eyes.

It was time to take action. Brendon went back to the bunks and shook Spencer's curtain, clattering the rungs. "Spence. Can we talk?"

"No," Spencer said.

Brendon rolled his eyes. Spencer's method of dealing with awkward or embarrassing situations was to ignore them until they went away, which had worked in the sixth grade but maybe not so well in adult life. Spencer was a champion ignorer, though. Brendon was convinced that half of why Brent had left—the reason why it had come down to that—was how Spencer, after a few too many missed practices, started acting like Brent didn't exist. Brendon didn't like to think about that either: Brent saying something, the silence that dragged on too long, Ryan's eventual, timid reply. And Spencer sitting there staring at the wall like nobody had said a word.

Well, Brendon was more intrepid than Brent had been. Brendon said, "Come on, they're watching The O.C. and I'm _bored_. I wanna go for a walk. Zack told me about this abandoned barn near the highway and he said I can go check it out as long as I take somebody else with me."

There was a pause. "I don't want to talk about anything," Spencer said.

"Who said we have to talk?" Brendon asked. "Don't flatter yourself, Smith. I just need somebody to help me satisfy Zack's cruel demands."

Spencer muttered something, but pulled back the curtain and swung his legs over the side of his bunk. He stared down at his knees instead of looking at Brendon. "Fine. Give me, like. Five minutes so I can find my shoes."

They walked away from the venue, past the buses and the fence and the train tracks, down the road about a mile until they came to where it ran under the highway, and there was the old barn, right where Zack said it was. It was kind of slumping over on itself, rotting there beside a big oak tree.

"Cool," Brendon said.

They crossed the road together and went down the grassy slope, across the field toward the barn. The high grass caught at Brendon's jeans, and he broke into a run, hollering, "The space plants are out to get me! They're going to suck me dry!"

"It's just that prickly grass stuff," Spencer said, still calmly wading through the field—the first thing he'd said since they left the bus half an hour ago. "It's not going to kill you."

"'Prickly grass stuff,'" Brendon repeated. "You fail at botany, dude." The grass was shorter near the oak tree, where it didn't get as much sun, and he flopped onto his belly. It was cooler in the shade, and the breeze felt nice, blowing across his sweaty back.

"Whatever, it's not like you know what it's called," Spencer said. "It's _grass_. Or, like. Really tall grass."

Brendon rolled his eyes. Spencer was pretty notorious for being defeated by nature—he'd gotten poison ivy three times on their first tour, and it was hard to shake that sort of reputation. After the second time, Ryan had printed out a bunch of stuff about how to identify poison ivy, and Spencer had gotten it again _anyway_. It was pathetic.

"Don't roll your eyes," Spencer said.

"Why not," Brendon said.

"It'll stick like that," Spencer said. "And then you'll be ugly."

Brendon sat up. "What, you don't think I'm ugly _now_?" Spencer's face turned pink and he looked away, and Brendon grinned, victorious. "I think we should talk about how you want my body," he added.

Spencer stopped where he was, still knee-deep in the grass, and rubbed a hand over his face. "I really disagree."

"Okay, seriously, will you come over here?" Brendon asked. "We need to—I can't just act like nothing happened, Spence."

"Why the hell not," Spencer said, but he finally pushed through the grass and dropped onto the ground next to Brendon, lying on his back with one arm thrown over his face. "Fine. What do you want to talk about."

"Um," Brendon said, and realized he wasn't actually sure what he wanted to say. "When we—you said it wasn't a big deal, I thought we were just messing around, I didn't know that you, uh."

"That was years ago," Spencer said, "that was like, eighty years ago—"

"It was _two_ years ago," Brendon said. "It was two years, I don't see why you've suddenly—"

"Two years ago you were fucking anyone who held still long enough," Spencer said. "Don't tell me things haven't changed for you."

"Fine, okay, so maybe they have," Brendon said. "So what."

"So maybe they've changed for me too," Spencer said.

"Oh," Brendon said, and bit his lip. "It's all the weight-lifting I've done, isn't it? You can't resist me."

"Don't do that," Spencer said.

"Do what," Brendon said.

"It isn't—not everything's a joke, Brendon." Spencer still hadn't moved his arm, he was just lying there with one leg bent, and Brendon wanted to be able to see his face.

"I don't think it's a joke," Brendon said. "I just, uh. You know."

"Whatever," Spencer said. "Even if you wanted to, I mean. It's not a good idea."

"What?" Brendon asked. "Why not?"

"You know," Spencer said. "The band. The—just everything. We can't."

"Oh," Brendon said. "Right."

"So," Spencer said.

They were quiet for a few minutes. Brendon listened to insects humming in the field, and the roar of cars passing by on the highway. He felt like something really dirty and hard was filling up his chest, and he wished he could rip it out and throw it away from himself. This shit always happened to him: he just wanted to do something fun, and then it ended in destruction and unpleasant conversations. He didn't really know how he felt about Spencer, but he didn't want things between them to turn sour, with Spencer's—with whatever it was that Spencer felt for him, and the fact that Spencer had thought he needed to keep it hidden. Spencer didn't hide things, not unless they were so painful or amazing that he didn't know how to talk about them.

"I guess we should head back to the bus," Brendon said at last.

Spencer didn't argue; he stood up and brushed his hands against his pants, whisking away the grass stems that had clung to him. "You're probably right," he said. "Let's go."

They didn't talk at all on the way back. Spencer kicked at rocks on the sidewalk and kept staring up at the sky, squinting against the bright June sun. Brendon wondered what he was looking for.

***

"So, loverboy," Jon said, sitting beside Brendon on the sofa and draping an arm across Brendon's shoulders, "what's the news?"

"I'm going to put antifreeze in your food," Brendon said. "I'm not even kidding."

"Aww, B, you're breaking my heart," Jon said. "Come on, you guys were gone for _hours_ yesterday, something must've gone down."

"Nope," Brendon said. "We walked to the barn, and then we had a really manly discussion about Guitar Hero, and then we walked back to the bus. It was super boring."

"Yeah, I'll bet," Jon said. He narrowed his eyes at Brendon and pulled his arm away. "Fine, I'll just ask Ryan to tell me what happened."

"He'll tell you exactly the same thing," Brendon said, which he was totally making up, but he'd be willing to bet at least twenty bucks that Spencer hadn't said a word to Ryan. Spencer had a mouth like a steel trap when he felt like it. Or, like. Something else that was really hard to get open. Like a clam or something. Brendon started humming that song from "Annie," the one about oysters and pearls. Certain people he knew cast aspersions on "Annie" all the time, but Brendon thought it was one of the highlights of musical theater.

"Fine," Jon said. "Whatever, I have my sources. I'll find out all of your secrets, Urie, and then you'll be sorry you didn't tell me yourself."

"If you're going to find out regardless, why should I spill?" Brendon asked. Jon had no grasp of basic logic.

" _Because_ ," Jon said, which was probably the stupidest reason for anything that Brendon had ever heard.

His suspicions were confirmed when Ryan cornered him in the back lounge before sound check that afternoon and said, "I don't know what's going on, but if you hurt him I'll kill you."

"That's such a lame threat," Brendon said, "everybody always says that and they never mean it. Nothing's going on anyway, so you won't have to bloody your silky-smooth hands."

"They aren't silky-smooth," Ryan said, and then, "What? What the fuck? This is not a conversation about my hands, Urie."

"It is now, oh snap!" Brendon said, and ran away before Ryan could interrogate him further. Brendon didn't have training in resisting torture; he would fold like a card table and reveal all his secrets, and that was just absolutely not acceptable. A man had to retain an aura of mystery.

Spencer pretty much had the whole mysterious aura thing down pat. Brendon was envious, most of the time, but not when it was preventing him from figuring out what the fuck was going through Spencer's bearded skull. Okay, his skull wasn't actually bearded, only his jaw and parts of his throat, but Brendon was pretty sure there weren't bones in there. Except for like, the spine. Although actually the jaw was a part of the skull, so maybe it counted. Brendon thought about that for longer than he should have and went off on a tangent about Hamlet, which wasn't really relevant to _anything_.

Sound check took a fucking geologic age because something was wrong with Ryan's setup and the sound guys couldn't figure out what it was. Brendon spent ten minutes playing around with the chord progression for the song he'd been working on, and then he went over to Spencer's drum kit and said, "Does your jaw count as part of your skull?"

Spencer blinked and twirled his drumsticks. "Uh, I guess? I don't really know. I'm not—anatomy is kind of beyond me."

"You're supposed to know these things," Brendon said. "Who else is going to be my font of knowledge?"

"I can't believe you just used the word 'font' in a sentence," Spencer said.

"Don't hate on my vocabulary. Just because I read a book every now and then, unlike _some_ people who I won't name," Brendon said, turning his head to look at Jon.

"Stop flirting and get back to your guitar," Jon said into his microphone, his voice booming through the venue. Brendon turned his head the other way in time to see Zack's eyebrows creeping up toward his hairline. Great, now Zack was going to give Brendon another one of those "please alert me before making any public announcements about your sexuality" talks. It would be the fourth time that month. Fucking Jon.

Sure enough, Zack approached him backstage after sound check, arms folded. "Urie—"

"I know, dude, two days notice, I promised you last time," Brendon said. "Chill. I'm not boning it with anybody right now, either, so you don't have to worry about pictures or whatever."

"Boning it," Zack said. "Uh-huh. You can do whatever you want, kid, I just need a heads up so I can keep the screaming teenagers away from you."

"I _promise_ ," Brendon said, clasping his hands together and fluttering his eyelashes. "Seriously. Don't listen to Jon, he's full of shit."

"I heard that," Jon said.

"I speak the truth," Brendon said. "It's not my fault you're the way you are. I know better than to try and change a man."

"Uh-huh," Zack said.

The problem, as Brendon saw it, was thus: Spencer _liked_ him, in the stuff-involving-nudity sort of way, and Brendon possibly—well, whatever Brendon felt, it didn't matter, because Spencer was all up on his "we can't because of the band" high horse, which admittedly made sense. The problem was that Brendon had been totally fucking blindsided. And Spencer had been—God knew how long Spencer had been, like, carrying a torch or whatever it was he was doing. Brendon felt bad for not noticing. He didn't want Spencer to be unhappy.

Except maybe it was all bullshit anyway, maybe Ryan had just planted some sort of weird idea in Spencer's head, using telekinesis or something, and Spencer hadn't even known about it. That shit happened all the time. Shane had showed him some documentary about therapists making people think they'd been molested as little kids, and maybe this was the same sort of thing, except less traumatic and emotionally damaging. Although, who the fuck knew, maybe Spencer was all torn up about it and would need years of therapy. It was all Ryan's fault.

That was the real problem, right there: that Ryan had asked the question, knowing _something_ —he must have known something, why would he have asked the question otherwise?—and Spencer had answered, and now Brendon's head was full of things he really didn't want it to be full of. He liked it when he didn't have to think about anything except their next show and where he would be able to get tacos. Brendon was a big fan of tacos. Interpersonal angst, not so much.

He called Shane after their show that night, safe in his own hotel room with a bottle of red wine and nobody breathing down his neck. "Dude, I've got a problem," he said, when Shane picked up.

"Oh yeah?" Shane said. It sounded like he had the TV on—that asshole was probably watching American Idol. "You get the clap again or something?"

"You're hilarious," Brendon said. "Okay, seriously, something's going on with Spencer, I don't know what the fuck to do."

"Huh," Shane said. The noise in the background cut off. "Is it, like, band shit, or is it about how you want to bone him?"

"What," Brendon said.

"It's totally obvious, dude, you follow him around and stare at his ass all the time. It's sick. You need to man up," Shane said. "I'll give you pointers and everything. The patented Valdes seduction techniques."

"Great," Brendon said, scowling. Shane was so full of shit. Brendon should have known better than to call him. "Just what I need."

"Dude, you're in the gayest band on the planet," Shane said, ignoring him. "It's a fucking miracle I haven't been infected with it yet."

"Homosexuality isn't a _disease_ ," Brendon said indignantly, and then had to sit there for seriously like three minutes while Shane laughed at him. "And whatever, I totally like girls too, there was that chick at the Red Hen, remember—"

"That was a tranny, dude," Shane said.

"Whatever, she totally _looked_ like a woman," Brendon said. "Are you going to help me out or not?"

"I'm helping, okay, I'm helping," Shane said, even though he really wasn't, that lying bastard. "Look, all right, what happened."

Brendon told him the whole story: the hypnosis gone awry, fucking Ryan Ross sticking his nose into things, his trip to the barn with Spencer, Jon being a douche at sound check. "So now I'm all, like. I don't know what the fuck to do, man."

"You're such a chick," Shane said. "I can't believe you're seriously thinking about it this much. Do you want to hit that or not?"

"I don't fucking know, okay, that's the problem," Brendon said. "Whatever, fuck you, we'll just pretend I haven't spent hours and hours of my life talking to you about your poor, wounded heart—"

Shane was laughing at him again. "Wow, he's really fucked you up, huh? Look, I bet if you just—" There was a crashing noise, and Shane swore loudly. "Hey, I have to go, I'll call you later, yeah?"

"Shane—"

"Nope, gotta go, bye," Shane said, and hung up.

Everyone in Brendon's life was betraying him. He finished off the wine and watched porn on pay-per-view for a while, and then he tried to sleep, but that was always an exercise in futility, so he ended up thinking about Spencer instead. He still remembered the day he met Spencer: he'd gotten a B- on his math test, and Krista from German class had told him he was fucking obnoxious and to stay away from her, and then he'd gotten in Brent's mom's station wagon and walked into Spencer's grandmother's house and Spencer was there, twirling his drumsticks and looking bored. Brendon hadn't paid any attention to him. It was kind of funny to remember how easily he'd dismissed Spencer, how convinced he'd been that Ryan was the only person he needed to impress.

Spencer was infuriating. He didn't have any chinks in his armor. Brendon couldn't figure out if Spencer was just good at hiding things or if he really was that uncomplicated and happy. Like, of course he had his ups and downs—after he broke up with Haley, Brendon had actually seen him _cry_ —but for the most part, Spencer just went with the flow and played the drums and was pretty cheerful and easy-going.

It made Brendon crazy. He knew he was more emotional than most people, and that he thought about his feelings more than most guys, but okay, Spencer was a fucking pod person. Brendon didn't understand how Spencer could drop a huge fucking bomb like that on Brendon's head and then act all nonchalant and joke around during sound check and fucking _go out to dinner_ with Jon like absolutely nothing had happened. Spencer should want to push the issue or apologize or tell Brendon not to think about it or try to make out with him or—something, he should be doing _something_ instead of pretending that everything was cool. It wasn't cool at all.

Brendon pulled out his phone and tried to send Spencer a text message, but the keys were too fucking small and he couldn't type right, and probably what he sent didn't make any sense but neither did Spencer, so he should be able to figure it out just fine.

He felt terrible in the morning, but then he took four Advil and had a cold shower and he kind of felt better after that.

"Wow, rough night?" Jon asked, when Brendon stumbled down to breakfast.

"Gimme some toast," Brendon said.

Ryan rolled his eyes.

"You sent me some weird text message at two in the morning," Spencer said. "I think it's about transvestites and pod people, but it's hard to tell, your spelling's really bad—"

"Just delete it," Brendon said, "oh God. Seriously, is there any toast?"

It was official: Brendon had a problem, and its name was Spencer Smith.

***

He talked to his mom that afternoon, a quick fifteen minutes between sound check and getting ready for the show, and he told her that things were weird with Spencer but didn't give her any of the details. His parents were still in denial about the whole "I like fucking dudes" thing.

"I'm sure you'll be able to work it out, sweetie," his mom said, and, "Spencer's such a nice young man," and, "Maybe you should try talking about it with him."

"I've _tried_ that, Mom," Brendon said. "Jeez, give me a little bit of credit." He made sure to keep his voice light, so she knew he was joking.

His mom laughed. "Well, I'll pray for both of you, honey. I know you've got a show tonight so I won't keep you. God bless."

"Um, you too," Brendon said awkwardly.

Fact: Brendon still carried around a copy of the Standard Works. None of the other guys knew about it; he kept it at the bottom of his duffel and never took it out, but it made him feel better just to know it was there. Fact: Brendon had some issues with God. He'd left the Church, yeah, but not without looking back, and it was hard to get rid of all the trappings. He still prayed some—just sometimes, curled up in his bunk and his lips moving silently: Dear God, please let Ryan be able to handle his dad dying; Dear God, please convince my parents to let me come home for Christmas, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen. It seemed to work okay, but that might have been because Brendon only prayed for things that he was pretty sure were going to happen anyway.

Sometimes it was hard—just, he saw how much comfort and happiness his mom got from thinking that Jesus was looking after her, and sometimes Brendon missed feeling that way. The security of knowing you were never really alone.

Really, though, who the fuck did God think He was to condemn Brendon for liking dick. There was all _kinds_ of crazy shit in the Old Testament, and Brendon refused to think that a little ass-fucking was worse than, like, prostituting your daughters. It was just—he could be out killing people or fucking underage groupies or cooking meth, _anything_ , and if God was so small-minded that He thought being gay was just as bad as _actual_ sins, then you know what, Brendon didn't want to have anything to do with Him. It was a stupid religion, and Brendon didn't believe in it anymore, and so what if he still watched the Tabernacle Choir on TV sometimes. It was just out of habit.

Whatever. His mom always did this to him, the way she talked about God like He would still give Brendon the time of day. Brendon didn't want to think about it. He headed back toward the dressing room—maybe Spencer would distract him. Spencer wasn't there, though; just Jon and Ryan, who were sitting around looking suspiciously glassy-eyed, and Brendon scowled, wondering when they'd had time to smoke up and why they hadn't invited him.

"Hey, B," Jon said, and waved one lazy hand.

"You assholes were smoking without me, weren't you," Brendon said, and sighed when neither of them bothered to deny it. "I want a Red Bull."

"Caffeine moratorium," Ryan said.

"I'm an _insomniac_ ," Brendon said, which was true, if only recently. "I need caffeine or else I _can't live_."

"Wow, those are some dire straits you're in, dude," Jon said.

Brendon was clearly not going to get any sympathy from that quarter. Luckily he'd chugged an energy drink when they stopped for gas earlier. It was kind of ridiculous that he was old enough to buy alcohol and yet was still sneaking around over a perfectly legal caffeinated beverage, but Ryan always acted so disappointed that it wasn't worth the grief. Seriously, he carried on like Brendon had roasted and eaten Hobo or something. Brendon thought that maybe Ryan had a little bit too much free time on his hands.

"Where's Spencer," Brendon said. "He'll partake of the magical grass with me."

"I'm not going anywhere near that sentence," Jon said.

"He's doing his hair," Ryan said. "He'll be out in a minute."

"Time waits for no man," Brendon said, and he marched over to the bathroom and banged on the door with his fist.

"I'm busy," Spencer said, voice muffled.

"Are you naked? Let me in," Brendon said.

The door opened. "I'm not naked. Jesus Christ. What do you want?" Spencer hated having his bathroom time interrupted, and his eyebrows were raised, his hair sticking out in different directions.

"Let's have cuddle time," Brendon said. He ducked beneath the arm Spencer was holding across the doorway and pulled the door shut behind him. The bathroom had a weird mural on one wall, like, swirls of pastel colors and smiling sun faces and shit. Brendon liked it.

"It's too small in here," Spencer said, frowning. "You can't—I'm trying to get ready, Brendon."

"I just want to borrow your hair straightener. Chill," Brendon said. He bumped one hip against Spencer's leg and Spencer stepped away, freeing up space at the counter. They all liked to make fun of Spencer for his grooming routine, but he really didn't have that much stuff: flat iron, hair gel, weird comb for his beard. Brendon suspected that Spencer just liked to have an excuse to hide in the bathroom before shows.

Brendon leaned close to the mirror and breathed out, making a fogged circle on the glass. He drew two eyes and a smiling mouth. "I talked to my mom earlier," he said.

"Oh yeah?" Spencer said. He picked up the flat iron and then put it back down on the counter and turned it off. "What'd she have to say?"

Brendon shrugged. "She said she'd pray for me."

"Is that, uh. Is that a bad thing?" Spencer asked.

"I don't know. I don't know if I want her doing that. It's just." Brendon shook his head. Spencer had that strained look on his face that he got whenever Brendon tried to talk about religion. Somewhere along the line, Spencer and Ryan had gotten the idea that Brendon blamed them for tempting him away from the warm embrace of the Church. Whatever. He said, "Never mind."

"Why's she praying for you," Spencer said.

"I told her you were being weird and I didn't know what to do about it," Brendon said, and watched with interest as Spencer's ears turned pink and he covered his face with one hand.

"Jesus," Spencer mumbled. "You can't just—you just _say_ these things, Brendon, it's crazy. You're not supposed to say stuff like that."

"What, so I should dance around the subject forever like everyone else does, and never get anything accomplished?" Brendon asked. "That's stupid."

Spencer made a weird flailing gesture with his hands. "I just—I don't know what you want me to do, I mean, you know how I feel, so—"

"I really don't, actually," Brendon said. "All I know is that you said something under the influence of hypnosis and, like, second-hand smoke. That doesn't mean anything. Maybe Ryan planted messages in your subconscious."

"Ryan didn't—what? Why would he do that?" Spencer said, blinking.

"Because he's _Ryan_ ," Brendon said. "Who knows why he does _anything_."

"That's not—okay, you're getting me off topic," Spencer said. "Except I don't want to talk about the topic, so why don't we just act like nothing happened."

"You _like_ me," Brendon said. "In the naked stuff way."

Spencer picked up his straightening iron and started wrapping the cord around it. "Yeah, okay, I do. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"Yeah," Brendon said. He turned so he was facing Spencer and leaned against the counter top, his arms folded low across his belly. He looked at Spencer: his pursed lips, the freckles across his nose, the way his hand shook just slightly when he raised it to push his hair out of his eyes.

"Okay, so now can we—you need to let it to go," Spencer said. "I never would have said anything if Ryan hadn't opened his big mouth, so can we please just go back to pretending you don't know how I feel about you?"

"I'm not—were we pretending that before?" Brendon asked.

"I'm not talking about this," Spencer said, and he squeezed past Brendon and opened the door and slammed it shut behind him.

Brendon blew another cloud onto the mirror and wrote Spencer's initials in it, and then wiped his hand through, smearing everything away.


	2. Chapter 2

Ryan had, like, fucking _radar_ for knowing when Brendon wanted to talk to him about something, and he always managed to be away from the bus or hanging out with Jon or taking a nap or _something_. It was uncanny.

Brendon finally managed to corner him when they stopped for snacks outside Tulsa. Ryan had a weakness for white tea, and he was lingering by the drink coolers in the back of the QuikTrip, alone and vulnerable while Jon tossed a Frisbee around with some of the techs. Brendon recognized his opening; he swooped in for the kill.

"So, Ryan Ross," he said, "you know something about Spencer that I don't, and I want you to tell me."

"No," Ryan said, not looking away from the rows of bottled drinks. "Wait, what?"

Brendon snapped his fingers in front of Ryan's nose. "Pay attention. This is a matter of national security."

"I really don't think it is," Ryan said.

"Well, it _could_ be, for all you know," Brendon said. "Stop trying to distract me. Spencer said that he—he said something that made me think you could give me some information that would, I don't know, help me figure out what the hell's going on."

Ryan frowned. "Nothing's going on. What? Are you talking about how he's got the hots for you?"

" _Yes_ ," Brendon said, overjoyed that Ryan had finally hopped on board the clue train.

"Why are you asking me about this?" Ryan asked.

"Because he won't talk to me," Brendon said, "I've tried and tried and he just keeps—whatever, dude, I don't know, he's _Spencer_. He won't tell me anything."

"Huh," Ryan said. "Okay, I don't know, he's been into you for years, you knew this. You need to stop messing with his head."

Brendon was actually speechless for a few seconds, which hardly ever happened. "I'm not—what?" he said weakly.

Ryan rolled his eyes. "Oh, whatever, Brendon, you've been trying to get in his pants since you were still in high school."

"I'm—I didn't—no I haven't," Brendon stammered. "I didn't know that he—I thought it was just, you know, a thing, but now it's a _thing_ , and I'm not—"

"This is ridiculous," Ryan said. "You're both adults. Or, technically, at least. You can figure it out on your own." He patted Brendon on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Spencer already knows you don't have any common sense."

"That's a lie!" Brendon said. "I have plenty of common sense, I have _all kinds_ of common sense—"

"You really don't," Ryan said. "Look, do you like him or not? Check yes or no."

Brendon shoved his hands into his pockets and didn't answer.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Ryan said, smirking. "Just don't mess up the band."

"Nothing's happening," Brendon said.

"Sure," Ryan said. "The fee for my advice is three bottles of white tea. You can pay at the register up front."

Brendon bought himself a bag of Skittles and spent all afternoon hiding in the back lounge, curled on the sofa with his legs drawn up. Oklahoma was miles of interstate and fields of some sort, wheat or something, which was bad because Brendon couldn't distract himself with the scenery. Ryan and Spencer were watching TV up front, and Brendon heard them laughing from time to time, and Spencer yelling something about supermodels. Brendon texted Shane some haiku about wheat fields, but Shane didn't respond, and Brendon gave up and just lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling.

The first time Brendon kissed Spencer had been during the Nintendo Fusion tour, after their show in Omaha—Brendon still remembered it: the heat had been broken in the van, and it was freezing in the Midwest, snow on the ground already even though it wasn't Thanksgiving yet. Brendon had never been out of Vegas for more than a few days at the beach or visiting Kara or something, and weather that cold was as new to him as touring. He and Spencer huddled together on the back seat, wrapped in blankets and trying not to fucking freeze to death. Spencer had gotten one hand underneath Brendon's shirt and started skating his fingertips against Brendon's lower back, and Brendon pressed his mouth to Spencer's throat and Spencer made a noise, like nothing Brendon had ever heard before. He wanted to hear it again, just innocent curiosity, and he kissed Spencer's mouth and Spencer made a better noise, and he kissed Spencer again, and Spencer kissed him back, and they lay there in the dark with Brent driving and it was the first time Brendon ever kissed another dude.

The last time was in Tempe, just a few months later, and Brendon still remembered that too, though he wished he didn't.

In his imaginary interview, Jack said, "So, what are your feelings about Spencer?"

"He's a great guy. He's one of my best friends. I really enjoy being in a band with him."

"No, I mean your _real_ feelings," Jack said.

Brendon said, "I don't know."

"Is it true that at one time you felt more for him than just friendship?"

"Maybe," Brendon said. "I try not to think about it."

It was a shitty interview. Brendon didn't want to talk about it anymore. He stuffed his bag of Skittles between the couch cushions, where Ryan wouldn't look for it if he got the munchies, and headed toward the front of the bus. Jon was lying in his bunk, on the phone, and he waved at Brendon and held out one hand for a high-five. Brendon smacked Jon's palm as he passed by.

He wanted tea. He wanted a big mug of tea with honey in it, and maybe a few graham crackers, if somebody hadn't eaten them already, and then he wanted to watch some really terrible reality television, preferably the kind where the girls were all so dumb that it was totally obvious they were faking it. Brendon knew all about faking it. Those girls were his kindred.

Spencer and Ryan were still sprawled on the couch, channel-surfing. Ryan looked over when Brendon started rummaging around in the cabinets. "Do you want to smoke with us?" Ryan asked.

Brendon did.

All of his problems seemed a lot less serious after they smoked two bowls. The couch was too blue and scratchy, so Brendon rolled off it and sprawled out on the floor. He rubbed his hands over the carpet in large arcs, and after a few passes his palms started feeling weirdly numb, like they were oversensitized or something, and Brendon wondered if maybe that was why he couldn't figure out how he felt about Spencer: too much exposure, and now his nerve endings were used to it, and his heart was all confused. There were things he didn't know.

"There are things I don't know," he said.

"Like what," Ryan said.

"I don't know," Brendon said. "Can we watch reality television?"

"You want to watch that one with the girls in the bikinis," Spencer said.

Brendon rolled onto his back so he could look at Spencer. "That's right," he said. "I do. Can we watch that one?"

"Sure," Spencer said. "I think we've got some of the episodes on the TiVo."

"I hate that fucking show," Ryan said, and stood up. "Is Jon still on the phone?"

"Don't know," Brendon said. Ryan stepped over him, and Brendon tried to grab at his ankle, but Ryan was too fast and wily, and he escaped into the bunks before Brendon could achieve victory. "My victory," Brendon said sadly.

"You can beat him some other time," Spencer said. "Come on, I'm starting it."

Brendon scrambled back onto the couch. It was still scratchy, but there was a warm spot where Ryan had been sitting, and Spencer was there and he kept looking at Brendon, like, sideways glances that he clearly thought were subtle, but Brendon knew what was going on. Spencer was _watching_ him. He could feel Spencer's gaze on his skin, like it was tangible and alive, crackling along his bare arms and his throat. It itched. He was warm and Spencer was right there and watching.

"Can I kiss you?" Brendon asked, and was surprised to hear the words come out of his mouth. He hadn't meant to say it, but he didn't really want to take it back, either. He kind of wanted to see how Spencer would react.

Spencer crossed his legs and then uncrossed them again. "Okay," he said.

"Okay," Brendon said. He scooted closer and put one hand on Spencer's shoulder. The fabric of Spencer's shirt was thin and soft, and his skin was warm beneath it. Spencer was still looking toward the TV, and Brendon had to put his other hand on Spencer's face and make Spencer turn to face him, and then they were looking at each other, and Brendon didn't want to see whatever nameless emotion was shining at him out of Spencer's eyes. He leaned in and kissed Spencer, as carefully as he knew how, and it felt like nothing: just skin meeting skin, and the tickly scratch of Spencer's beard.

Spencer pulled back. "Not like that," he said.

"Like what?" Brendon said.

"Like you're taking notes," Spencer said. "You don't—here," he said, and leaned in again. This time his mouth was open, just a little bit, and Brendon couldn't resist that sort of temptation. He ran his tongue over Spencer's upper lip, and Spencer made a surprised noise, and then they were kissing for real, wet and eager, and Spencer tasted like pot and his teeth smushed painfully into Brendon's lip and Brendon didn't care at all. His hand was still on Spencer's face. He wasn't taking notes.

Spencer stopped it. He broke away and rested his forehead on Brendon's shoulder and said, "I can't." His hands were underneath Brendon's t-shirt, resting on Brendon's back. He dug in with his short nails, and Brendon hoped there would be marks there later, little crescents he could examine in the mirror: proof.

"You just did," Brendon said.

"No, I mean. With you, if you're not—I can't just pretend," Spencer said, "I can't mess around and pretend that it's what I—if you—"

"It's not a big deal," Brendon said, testing the way the words felt in his mouth. "It doesn't have to mean anything."

"Fuck you," Spencer said mildly, and he was off the couch and gone before Brendon could think of anything to say in response.

Brendon turned on the show with the dumb girls and watched them swim in the pool and adjust their bikini straps and talk about which guy they liked best. It was soothing. He didn't have to worry about anything; he could just look at their pierced navels and think about hammocks and summer and the way the air always smelled like salt when you were near the ocean.

He thought about Spencer's mouth: his chapped lower lip, his slightly crooked incisor.

He watched three episodes in a row, but Spencer didn't come out of the back, not until they stopped at the venue and had to leave for sound check.

***

It was possible that Brendon had a bad day at some point during their first few months of touring and had flipped out at Ryan and Spencer about how it was their fault he wasn't still in Vegas going to seminary and preparing for his mission. He didn't remember what set him off, or where Brent had been—off talking to his girlfriend, maybe—but he remembered how their faces looked: Spencer shocked and sad, and Ryan totally expressionless.

It wasn't one of his finer moments. He'd apologized the next day and said he was acting crazy, they knew he didn't mean it, right, he was just stressed out and he shouldn't have taken it out on them.

Brendon was pretty sure he would have left the Church eventually, but it wouldn't have happened so fast without the band. He'd grown up surrounded by relatives and kids from his ward, and then suddenly Ryan was there, casually drinking a Red Bull after practice and saying, "You want to try?" It had been easier with an example to follow. When he started fighting with his parents, his friends looked worried and said they would pray for him; Ryan said, "Fuck them, we're going to be famous."

Brendon had tried those same words later, during the fight with his parents that had ended with them telling him to find somewhere else to stay. "Fuck you," he'd said, liking the bitter, solid sound of the words. "We're going to be famous."

Maybe if he'd stayed in Vegas he would have insisted on going to music school instead of wasting two years of his life knocking on people's doors, and maybe his parents would have kicked him out over that; or maybe he would have gone on his mission and it would have changed his life and he would have married a good LDS girl and popped out a ton of babies. Maybe he would have come out sooner, and it would have been worse all around; maybe his parents would have disowned him over it. He kind of thought the only reason they were still speaking to him was that he'd already broken their hearts ages before that particular revelation. "Mom, I'm gay" was probably a lot easier to handle when it was preceded by, "Mom, I'm leaving the Church."

Maybe that was why he'd been so angry with Ryan and Spencer: some part of him had still hoped that one day he might find his way back to the fold. The Church would forgive a lot of things, but homosexuality wasn't one of them. That first winter, kissing Spencer in whatever dark corner they could find after a show, Brendon had been equal parts elated and terrified, knowing that there was no going back.

There was no going back now either. He'd kissed Spencer, and then again, and Spencer kissed him back, and they were both high but Brendon knew he couldn't blame it on the weed. He had to man up and deal with it, and then maybe Shane would quit leaving him epic voice messages about the importance of not being a pussy.

As soon as he got back to their dressing room after the show that night, Brendon stripped off his shirt and threw it against the door, where it landed with a wet thud and slid to the ground. The show had been awful: they'd been two beats off the whole night, and Spencer wouldn't pay any attention when Brendon made frantic hand gestures at him, just kept pounding away at his kit.

Brendon would have sold his right nut for a shower, but Spencer had gotten in there before anyone else could, quick like a bunny rabbit. He figured that arguing over shower rights was probably a little gauche. This whole thing with Spencer was the sort of situation where there were clearly right and wrong ways to behave, but Brendon didn't have anything to guide him; he was flying blind.

Jon, serene on the couch, said, "What's shakin', bacon?"

"I want a shower," Brendon said. "Go in there and tell Spencer to quit hogging all the hot water. You're my only hope."

"Tell him yourself," Jon said. "I'm not getting involved in your weird sexual tension thing."

"There's no sexual tension," Brendon said.

"You're a fucking moron," Ryan said. "I mean that with love."

"Yeah, well, you know what, Ross, this whole mess is your fucking fault, because you can't keep your mouth shut when it would be a really good idea to keep it shut, and if you hadn't said anything none of this would have happened and Spencer wouldn't be pissed at me and the band wouldn't be on the verge of breaking up," Brendon said.

"The band isn't going to break up," Ryan said. "I did you a favor, dude. You should be thanking me. You and Spence would've avoided the subject forever. I was sick of watching your pathetic mating dance."

"There's no mating dance," Brendon said, "there's nothing there, he doesn't want—whatever, fuck you, you're not my fucking love guru, it's none of your business what I do or what Spencer does—"

"Yeah, except for how I have to live with you," Ryan said. "And how I've known Spencer for a zillion years and his happiness is absolutely my business."

"It's his right to meddle," Jon said. "We're just looking out for you, Baby B. Embrace the love."

Ryan laughed. "Yeah, he'll embrace it all night long—"

"You're not funny," Brendon snapped. "I'm glad this is entertaining you, but it's not entertaining _me_ , it fucking sucks and both of you are acting like—"

"Just chill and get it out of your system," Jon said. "Sex is good for you. It releases all those endorphins and shit."

Brendon wanted to throttle both of them, but maybe God was looking out for him after all, because Spencer chose that moment to open the bathroom door and say, "Shower's free."

"Me next," Brendon said, and darted into the bathroom before anyone could argue with him. Jon and Ryan were _slow_. And lame. They could fucking sit there and marinate in their own sweat for another fifteen minutes. Brendon was going to bathe.

Spencer had left his shampoo in the shower, and Brendon washed his hair twice and hoped that maybe he'd smell like Spencer for a little while. He stayed in the shower until the water cooled slightly, and then he wrapped a towel around his waist and smeared his hand across the steamed-up mirror, clearing a spot for his face.

"So, Brendon," Jack said, "have you made your decision yet?"

"Yes," Brendon said, but he really meant _no_ , or maybe he meant _yes_. Maybe he was saying what he meant.

He went back into the dressing room. Ryan was still there, but Jon was gone, and Spencer was sitting on the table eating a bag of Cheetos. Brendon ignored both of them and crossed the room to his duffel, and then he dropped his towel. He needed a pair of pants. If Spencer was looking at him, well, there wasn't a damn thing Brendon could do about it. He hoped Spencer got a fucking eyeful.

"Zack, Brendon's being naked again," Ryan yelled.

The dressing room door opened and Zack poked his head in. "Put on your pants, Urie," Zack said.

"You're all Communists," Brendon said. "A man's junk needs to _breathe_ , okay. I'm just trying to take care of my genitalia."

Spencer threw a Cheeto at him. Brendon was shocked for a moment by the sheer wastefulness of the gesture, and then he looked at Spencer, and Spencer was—Spencer was _smirking_ , and when Brendon kept looking, Spencer lifted his right hand to his mouth and made a huge production out of sucking the Cheeto dust off his thumb.

"Wow," Ryan said. "Okay, I'm going to leave now."

"Bye," Brendon said, still looking at Spencer. He heard the door shut, and then he said, "Spence."

"It's a big deal," Spencer said, "okay? It's a big deal for me. It means things."

"Okay," Brendon said. He thought about saying something else, but he was fucking tired of talking; he was twenty-one and he was naked and Spencer was staring at him, and he really didn't want to talk anymore. He crossed the room, feeling kind of silly and kind of turned on, and Spencer leaned back, his palms braced against the surface of the table, and spread his legs wider, making room.

Brendon didn't stop until he was close enough to feel Spencer's body heat, and he rested his hands on Spencer's thighs. It was weird that Spencer still had all his clothes on, but in that way where it was totally rocking Brendon's world. Spencer's jeans were rubbing against Brendon's hips, and it made Brendon's skin feel weird and tingly, and Spencer's eyes were blue and his nose was freckled and Brendon wanted to kiss him.

"Um," Spencer said. He licked his lips. His hands settled at Brendon's waist and slid lower, cupping his hipbones. "Brendon, you're—"

"Yeah," Brendon said, and tilted his chin up so he could kiss Spencer, and he wasn't taking notes; he opened his mouth and let Spencer suck on his tongue, and he hoped it was okay that he was hard and making helpless noises while Spencer licked into his mouth.

Spencer slid his left hand down even further, until he was palming Brendon's ass, and Brendon took that as an invitation to press even closer and wrap his arms around Spencer's neck and rub his dick against the rough fabric of Spencer's jeans. It was too rough, it hurt, but Brendon didn't care, it was _friction_ , and Spencer smelled so good, and he was kissing Brendon like he'd be happy to spend at least an hour doing nothing else.

They broke apart. "I want, uh," Brendon said, and flushed and buried his face against Spencer's shoulder, breathing in the scent of Spencer's detergent. It felt weird to ask. It felt weird doing this at all, stripped down in the harsh light from the bare bulb overhead, and Zack standing guard outside the door.

But Spencer just said, "Yeah," and curled his other hand loosely around Brendon's dick, and Brendon made a sound he didn't think he'd ever made before.

Spencer was good at it. He knew what he was doing. He held Brendon close and worked his hand slow and rough, too dry for comfort but somehow still fucking incredible. Brendon rocked into Spencer's fist and tipped his head back, panting up at the ceiling with his eyes closed. The floor was cold beneath his feet, but he was hot everywhere else, his back and his arms and most especially where Spencer was touching him. His breathing sounded harsh and loud in the small room. Spencer rubbed his thumb in circles and moved his mouth over Brendon's exposed throat, his lips wet against Brendon's Adam's apple, and then down to the pulse beating swallow-fast between Brendon's collarbones.

"Shit," Brendon said, and dug his fingers into Spencer's back, trying to make him speed up—Spencer was going so fucking _slow_ , and it was perfect and maddening and Brendon was going to lose his shit completely.

"You look so fucking— _Brendon_ ," Spencer said, and squeezed his fist, and Brendon didn't have any warning before his orgasm crested and spilled over. He opened his eyes and glanced down in time to see his come striping Spencer's forearm and his pants and the bottom of his t-shirt.

"Oh," Brendon said, and clung to Spencer while he shuddered through the last of it.

"Wow," Spencer murmured, brushing kisses against Brendon's chin and the curve of his jaw. He didn't say anything else, just held Brendon and rubbed his back and let him catch his breath.

"I won't hold you to it," Brendon said after a while.

"Hold me to what?" Spencer said.

"You know," Brendon said. "It meaning stuff."

He knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as he looked at Spencer's face, but it was too late to take it back, and plus he wanted to know what Spencer was going to say—if Spencer had any clue what was going on, or if he was just making shit up as he went along, maybe hoping Brendon would go down on him if he played it cool.

"I'm not fucking around," Spencer said. He pressed his hand against the front of his pants, just briefly, but it made Brendon's stomach flip, half nausea and half desire. "Do you really think—I just told you I'm not."

"Yeah, well, it's easy to talk big," Brendon said, and he didn't know why he was trying to start shit, especially right now, but he was angry and frustrated and confused and he wanted to throw down and get it over with. He pulled away from Spencer and went back to his duffel. He still needed some pants.

"You don't get to do that," Spencer said. He'd left his wet towel sitting on the table beside him, and he picked it up and started wiping off his arm and his clothes. "I'm sorry if it's so _offensive_ that I'm—but I wanted to let it go, you're the one who keeps pushing things."

Brendon shook his head. He grabbed clean underwear from his duffel and pulled it on. "I just can't—I've known about this for what, five days? And before that, for two years I thought that you weren't, uh. I thought we were just friends, and that you wouldn't ever feel anything else for me, and. It's a big adjustment, okay."

"You should have to _adjust_ ," Spencer said. "It's not that complicated."

"Maybe not for _you_ ," Brendon said.

"I thought—Ryan said that you, uh," Spencer said. "Anyway, I guess not."

"Yeah," Brendon said, "you know what, it took me six fucking months to get over you the first time, I'm not putting myself through that again."

"What?" Spencer said. He crumpled up the Cheetos bag and tossed it into the trash can.

"Whatever, don't fucking give me that," Brendon said. He pulled out a pair of pants, but they kind of smelled like tuna fish, and he knew he had to have another pair in there; he wanted his jeans with the stitching on the back pockets, and they were in there somewhere, he just had to look a little harder. "You know you stomped all over my little eighteen-year-old heart, this isn't news."

"What are we—are you _mad_ at me?" Spencer asked. "Brendon. Can you not—will you look at me?"

Brendon didn't want to; he really didn't want to, he didn't want to look at Spencer with his beard and his blue eyes and his shirt open at the throat, but he gave up his hunt for his pants and turned to face Spencer again, feeling exposed now, his bravado all used up. He crossed his arms over his chest and felt his skin breaking out in goose-bumps. "What," he said. "I'm looking at you now, what the fuck do you want to say to me."

"I feel like we're talking about two different things here," Spencer said. "I'm trying to talk about what's happening now, and you're still stuck on shit that happened a really long time ago."

"You told me it didn't mean anything!" Brendon said. "You told me we were just—"

"You told me _you_ didn't want to because it was a sin," Spencer said. "You're always doing this, you try to revise history to match your version of events, but it's _not true_ , the only reason—"

"I told you that because you wouldn't look at me," Brendon said, "you acted like I wasn't there and I just wanted things to go back to the way they were before it started."

"That's not what happened," Spencer said. "You're fucking—you know what, I'm not having this conversation."

"Wow, I hate to break it to you, but you really are," Brendon said.

"Not anymore," Spencer said, and he stood up and headed for the door, but Brendon got there first. He plastered himself against the door, one hand fisted around the knob, and he probably looked ridiculous, skinny and bare-chested and his hair still dripping from his shower, but if Spencer got away now they would never talk about it, and Brendon was getting really tired of that particular elephant in the room. It smelled, and it took up space, and he wanted to send it back to the zoo or the savanna or wherever the fuck it was that elephants usually lived.

"I'm talking about shit that happened years ago because it _matters_ , it happened and it's _important_ , okay," Brendon said. "I can't just—you have to mean it this time. If we. You have to mean it."

"I meant it last time," Spencer said. "You told me we had to stop. You said it was _wrong_ , okay, you acted like I was making you lie to God—"

"I don't care about God," Brendon said, and hoped Spencer would ignore the way his voice was breaking. " _Fuck_ God. It's all _shit_ , why does He care who I fuck when He's not paying attention to any of us _anyway_."

Spencer didn't say anything, and Brendon started to feel more embarrassed than angry, and he lifted one hand to cover his face. Spencer caught Brendon's wrist and tugged his hand away again. "Is that what this is about?" Spencer asked. "This is just your cosmic fuck-you? You're trying to get revenge on the church or your parents or _me_ —"

"No. I don't believe that stuff anymore," Brendon said, and it was true: he was telling the truth. Spencer's fingers were warm around Brendon's wrist, and Spencer's thumb was rubbing the little hollow right at the base of Brendon's palm. It made Brendon feel shivery. "You said that things have changed for you, and they've changed for me too, okay—I've changed, I fucking came out to my parents, you _know_ that, I don't know how you can think that I still—"

"Okay," Spencer said.

"I'm in love with you," Brendon said. "God help me, Spencer Smith, that's the truth."

"Well," Spencer said, and the asshole let go of Brendon's wrist and scratched his chin like he actually had to think about it. "I guess that's cool."

"That's it?" Brendon said. "That's all I get? I reveal the innermost workings of my fragile heart, and you just—"

"Brendon," Spencer said, and he was smiling now, the big, carefree grin he got when he was really happy, and his eyes were crinkled up at the corners.

"You're so fucking mean to me," Brendon said.

"It's how I display my affection," Spencer said.

"Okay," Brendon said. He clapped both hands over his mouth because otherwise he was going to start laughing and never be able to stop, too full of joy to do anything else.

Someone pounded on the door, and Brendon barely got out of the way before it swung open and Ryan came in, scowling. He stopped and wrinkled his nose. "It smells like spunk in here."

"Well," Spencer said. "Yeah."

"Oh my God," Ryan said, and stared at them for a moment before he turned and ran out into the hallway, yelling for Jon.

"Fuck," Spencer said, and Brendon did start laughing then, loud and happy, and maybe he wouldn't ever stop.

THE END  



End file.
